


Hair of the Dog

by metaphoracle



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Chicago Blackhawks, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:13:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metaphoracle/pseuds/metaphoracle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So his best friend was a dog. He smelled. He ate half his food without asking. He invaded his personal space even though he had the entire couch to sit on. So, really, not much had changed in the grand scheme of things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hair of the Dog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [james](https://archiveofourown.org/users/james/gifts).



As the car in front of him began to inch towards downtown, Toews knew he should have taken the Eisenhower instead of the Dan Ryan.

Yeah, his ride was pretty sweet, but that didn't mean he wanted to grow old in it, and Chicago traffic was a bitch on the best of days. After tonight's practice, all he wanted was to Grub Hub some Giordano's (because Uno's is for fucking tourists) and play Mario Kart until his brain went numb. But Kaner had convinced him to go out for at least one beer, and then the fucker had the nerve to turn into a dog.

No joke.

They'd been at the bar, and one moment Kaner had been smirking about some chick across from them that he'd hooked up with, and then this...dog was standing where Kaner had been, looking at him with his big stupid blue eyes.

There was a joke there, Toews was sure. Something about Kaner always having been a dog, but the joke wasn't funny if Kaner couldn't understand it (and, honestly, he wasn't sure Kaner would understand him if he was _human_.) The bottom line was that instead of his best friend, he was sitting next to an Australian Shepherd, (according to Seabs) wearing Kaner's stupid grin. Sharpy and Dunc and Seabs had offered to take Kaner home with them, but the dog had stubbornly refused to budge from Toews' side. Lucky him. So now, Kaner's his responsibility, stupid big paws and furry back and all. But the thing is, Toews doesn't really mind. After four years, he'd realized this was his cross to bear. Some people had to deal with braces or acne or those moles that grow hair. Jonathan Toews had to deal with Patrick Kane.

* * *

His mood hadn't improved by the time he parked in his numbered space at his condo.

Luckily his building was pet friendly, though usually the dogs are those designer ones that look like rats and not whatever it is that Kaner is. Australian. The doorman waved them both in, and he got to tug on Kaner's leash while they're crossing the lobby.

“Slow down, boy,” he said, and if he was enjoying this a little more than he should, it was nothing that Kaner didn't deserve.

Like when they'd tried to put a collar and leash on him (he doesn't want to know why Dunc has a spare leash and collar in his truck), and Kaner kept darting out of reach and running to the other side of the parking lot. Seabs finally managed to corner him by the dumpster, and Dunc held him by the scruff of his neck while Toews collared him. He'd never seen a dog look righteously indignant before (he'd thought the expression was reserved for cats only), but Kaner managed to look both pissed and affronted as the nylon tightened around his neck.

Once inside his condo he unclipped the leash, but kept the collar on just in case Kaner tried to make a break for it. He turned his back to the dog as he hung up his jacket and scarf and heard the _clickity-click_ of nails on wood.

“Oh, don't scratch the hardwood,” he groaned.

The look Kaner gave him as he trotted to the wall of windows overlooking the city was almost...sly. This was revenge for the leash-tugging in the lobby, and they both knew it.

* * *

When Toews came back into the main room after changing into sweats Kaner was still at the windows. “You know, I could get used to you not talking,” he said, settling on the couch in front of the TV with a beer. The comment was met with a glare--as much as a dog could be said to glare--before Kaner padded to the couches in a huff.

Idly, he flicked on the NHL Network as he ordered up some wings and fries on his laptop. He usually watched hockey when he got home, but mostly he'd turned it on to see if he could get Kaner to leave the window.

Don Cherry's incessant rambling didn't do the trick, but a few minutes later when Crosby was sneaking one past Schneider, Kaner was standing in front of the TV, tail wagging like a metronome. Toews pursed his lips. "You make a better door than a window... Move it, or I'll get you one of those shock collars Soupy was talking about."

Kaner stared up at him, as though considering the words, and then trotted back towards the sofa. He hopped up and made himself comfortable as Toews watched.

"Dogs aren't allowed on the furniture," he protested, but didn't make any effort to push the mutt off. "Seriously. You'll wreck the upholstery."

All that earned him was a serious case of Puppy Dog Eyes as Kaner laid his head on the armrest.

He opened his mouth to protest but the door buzzed, and he got up to answer the door.

Dinner was an elegant affair served on his coffee table. He hadn't even bother with plates, but laid out the cardboard boxes on the coffee table. It was only when he turned to grin at Kaner as the Penguins scored again that he remembered his friend's canine problem. At some point Kaner had grabbed his discarded chicken bones, and was licking at them delicately as though he wasn't really sure how to eat them.

"Hungry, eh?" he drawled with a hint of a smile. It hadn't even occurred to him to _feed_ Kaner, so he can't quite blame him when Kaner gives up the bone and reaches for an uneaten wing instead. Of course, that doesn't quite keep him from protesting and reaching out to grab the wing back. "Hey! Who said you could have that?"

Those blue eyes fix on him again and he can see some of the Patrick Kane who stares him down when he's pissed, eyes looking wild and a little bit dangerous. Kaner's lip curls warningly, baring teeth, and growling just a little, deep in his throat.

Those icy blue eyes fixed on him again, and for a moment, it was almost like Patrick Kane really is sitting next to him, staring him down and looking every bit as dangerous as he does on the ice. Except this version of Kane has lips curling back in warning, baring sharp teeth and growling just a little, deep in his throat.

A shame that couldn't be translated to his game play.

“You always were a dick about sharing food,” Towes muttered, moving his hand back.

By the time they reached the third period--Pens up by 2--Kaner had eaten half his wings and most of his fries. The fucker had even burped in his face before rolling onto his back, shifting until his head is practically in Toews' lap. He allowed it, only because it was better than letting him slobber on the sofa.

Toews' phone buzzed where it was sitting on the arm of the sofa, causing Kaner's ears to perk up at the noise. Subconsciously, Toews rested his hand on top of Kaner's head, petting in a comforting gesture to calm him back down as he picked up the phone to check his text.

"It's Dunc," he informed the dog, and Kaner relaxed once more.

 _Hows it goin?_

 _ok. Just ate some wings._

Glancing down at the mutt, who looked far too comfortable, he smirked and sent a follow up text.

 _kaner's got a bone to chew._

Pretty clever, even if he did say so himself. Which he did. He expected some sort of jerkoff reply, but to his surprise Duncs answered instead with:

 _dont let him eat chicken bones! They get caught in his throat!_

Toews felt his stomach tighten in a sudden guilty concern, and his eyes flickered down to the dog beside him. To his un-admitted relief, Kaner was just laying on his back, front paws hanging in the air over his chest. When he noticed Toews staring at him, Kane snorted softly, and resumed watching the TV upside down from his kingly vantage point.

 _Kaner's fine. Dont worry._

He meant more than just the chicken bone thing; Kaner's transformation had them all on edge and wondering what the hell happened, but aside from the weirdness, he didn't appear to be in any sort of danger.

“What did you _do_?" he asked, knowing Kaner won't be able to answer. “Piss off a witch or something?”

Kaner's only answer was a soft snore, his back leg twitching slightly as he slept. Towes shook his head in disbelief. “Useless," he sighed, but there was a fond half-smile on his face, and he couldn't help reaching out to rub Kaner's exposed belly.

So his best friend was a dog. He smelled. He ate half his food without asking. He invaded his personal space even though he had the entire couch to sit on. So, really, not much had changed in the grand scheme of things.

They had a day off the next day, and he was supposed to be using it to go to see the Cubs slaughter the Rockies. Instead, he was going to have to figure out what the fuck Kaner did to get himself turned into a dog, and do his level best to fix it.

Glancing down at the snoozing pup, he sighed and added _Still fucking up my weekend,_ to the list of ways in which Kaner hadn't changed, before getting up to throw the take out boxes away.

* * *

TBC.

**Author's Note:**

> You asked for schmoop and were-creatures, and this was the result. Confession? This was supposed to be done, but life got in the way, so please consider this to be part one of two, the second part of which will be posted by New Year's. What can I say?I just had too much of a good time writing this fic. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it!


End file.
